We had a little unexpected detour this past weekend.

The fam and I are currently spending the holiday up in Elma with my folks. But right before Christmas, Jason’s grandfather passed away in California. So, thanks to the kind hearts and generous wallets of his parents, we flew down on Sunday night and attended the funeral on Monday, then made our way back to Washington yesterday via JetBlue.

I have decided that from now on, I will put my children in cold storage for all in-flight travel.

I also had some time to think about being dead. For starters, when I die, I would like before and after shots of me blown up really big. You know, a picture of me at age 86 with the “before” sign, then one of my senior photos from high school with an “after” because who isn’t going to be excited to get that body back? Hey, if that visual alone doesn’t inspire more people to look forward to death I don’t know will.

I also want a chocolate fountain and banana splits and prime rib and tikki masala and pizza hut deep dish pizza, all sitting under a big banner that reads, “Here’s what I’m eating in Heaven, wish you were here!”

Because when I die, I’d really like everyone to try and be stoked for me. Granted, this is a lot easier when the person is elderly and has really lived, but even if I go before 80, I like to think somewhere, someone will be glad. (That didn’t sound quite right.)

I also want mostly awesome music. Like dream boy Englebert Humperdink’s song, “This Moment in Time.” I love that man. In case you are too young to remember him, or don’t appreciate soulful crooners, go ahead and skip over this.

For the rest of you (since I can’t figure out how to put the video in my post), here’s a link to one of my favorite hairbrush songs in the entire world.

I know, he’s so cool.

(Ps – I’m a third generation Englebert Humperdink fan.)

Oh no. Oh no oh no oh no.

I have been faced with one of the worst moral dillemas known to girlkind. There’s an old addage that claims the worst decision is a choice between two good things.

And here I am, and now I have to choose between two totally awesome and amazing things. What’s it going to be?

Jason or Michael?

Santa wasn’t just good to my kids, but he apparently reads my blog. Because what do you think he left me this Christmas? A ticket. A beautiful, golden (actually it’s just a credit card receipt) ticket to the Michael Buble Crazy Love concert (currently making it’s way to Salt Lake City) with my dear-dear-friend Tricia.

Oh holy hannah, it was almost a perfect moment. Then Jason said this.

“By the way, the concert happens during the same week I’m going to Florida.”

I sat there looking at him, the word “concert” reverberating through my Michael infected mind.

“Huh?” I say.

“I said, if you want to go to the concert, you won’t be able to go to Florida with me.”

See, Jason gets one chance each year to take a week of training in Florida. On the beach. By the ocean. And I get to go with him.

I went last year and must tell you, it was the most recharging, free vacation I’ve ever had in my life. I plowed through novels and got five shades of red laying out on the beach.

The dillema is even greater because Jason is leaving me for five weeks in February to go to some big kid spy camp, so this vacation is kind of critical to my children’s safety and their mother’s sanity.

And thusly I sit. Wracked with torment. What do I do? Who do I choose? How could this be???

You know, I’m really feeling for Bella Swan right about now.

Christmas is over.

Hallelujah!!

Seriously, I don’t know about yours, but ours was full of wonderfulness and a few presents. Of course, I didn’t get what I asked Santa for (a blow up doll to sit in the front seat with the kids so I can run irritating errands like going to the post office, etc.), but I did come up with the greatest Santa trick ever.

Harrison got a relatively nice and ridiculously expensive gift (something we can do since Rex and June can still be shopped for at the Ross clearance toy section), a Nintendo DS. But if you ask me, he didn’t really deserve the best gift. The week or two before Christmas I saw an influx of fits and stomping, and I was tempted on more than one occasion to pop him one.

And so, after all the gifts were opened and he was feeling real good like, I said the following:

“Wow, Harrison, you got some great stuff. But it’s too bad you weren’t as good as you could have been. You should have heard what Santa was going to bring you.”

This got his attention.

“What do you mean?” his little 6-year-old self asked, “there was something better?”

I got all conspiratorial, looked both ways to make sure Santa wasn’t listening, and said, “If only you hadn’t thrown so many fits, he was gonna bring you a real motorcycle!” To which he gasped and choked and looked at his lump of DS with slight distain and disgust.

I have the feeling next year Santa will have a little more power.

And that, my friends, is brilliant parenting.

Twas the night before Christmas Eve and my family was making a midnight ride to grandma’s house. Over rivers and through many woods, happily breezing by those glowing beacons universally recognized as McDonald play places–we passed all the usual landmarks as the kids slept snugly belted into their boosters.

Here’s the thing about going home for the holidays. I spent the first two decades of my life engrossed in what I believed to be the most wonderful way to celebrate Christmas ever. Probably one of the hardest things about getting married was giving it all up. Adhering to new traditions was about as easy as traveling through a Utah snowstorm with rear wheel drive.

But since we’ve had children, Christmas has once again morphed and changed. And while I’m so excited to be home for the family Christmas Eve party (because it never quite feels like Christmas without it), I’m incredibly conscious of the sweet little Christmas I’m leaving here.

The last two years have been kind of precious for us. These three darling kids bring so much light and enthusiasm to our home (they also sometimes stink and throw-up, but you get the point), I’m afraid I’ll get so wrapped up in all the extended family that I won’t really see them.

Because even though our babies are still too busy dreaming of sugar plums and Santa gifts to give Jesus a whole lot of attention, I know that His spirit is in our home. We love each other, and forgive the phrase, but together really is our favorite place to be (especially if Disneyland or McDonald’s is part of that place). It must make the Savior happy to see families loving to be together, and so far we do.

No matter where the holiday might take you, may your Christmas be full of the same spirit that attended our Savior on that sacred night of his birth. May there be joy and love and family bonds, may your bridges be mended and may there be an abundance of olive branches to mark your path.

And even if you don’t get to be with the people you love the most, may the Spirit of Christmas let you love the ones you’re with.

Merry Christmas, my dear friends. Merry Christmas.

It’s one in the afternoon and this is the first time my cheeks have hit the seat all day. Holy crap where has the time gone?

I don’t know about you, but my list of to-do’s is still two feet long and I’ve checked it seven times. I have a kitty and a cape to make, two loads of must-have laundry left, not a gift is wrapped and we still have to pack. That’s right, I said pack. Because we’re taking Christmas to Washington.

And June is shredding all the Christmas paper as we speak.

I feel like the season has snuck up behind me and I’ve missed all the fun. Sure, there’s been snow and constant carols, but my shopping was done by Thanksgiving and the past few weeks I’ve been suffocating under the load of our ward Christmas party (which is like putting together a wedding reception, by the way).

And to top it off, I realized today that I haven’t made a single Christmas treat this year. I stepped on the scale this morning and it was right where it was supposed to be. I was actually depressed.

I need truffles and chocolate covered bacon. I want my SIL’s homemade caramels and my mother’s fudge by the pound. My kitchen is clean, and due to time constraints, it’s probably going to stay that way.

My only consolation has been the half pound of homemade almond roca Tricia dropped off and the plate of goodies from my visiting teachers. But it’s not the same, my kitchen hasn’t pulled it’s weight this year.

For the record, if you live in the greater northern Utah area and have piles of unwanted nut-free treats hanging around, consider me a possible dumping ground.

Down to three days with three projects to go. Here is a highlight of some of the better Christmas projects I’ve commissioned myself to make from scratch. Next year I’ll cut off a hand before attempting this kind of work load again. (And did you all know that Simplicity patterns are still written in Latin?)

Note the unfinished feet (they will not be camel toes when I'm done). This is a car pillow monkey friend that my kids think is really cool. I wanted to bite off his nose, the face was so hard to figure out. *Do not attempt this if you are under any kind of duress, or taking prescription medication.

He's going to be Rex's. Yes, I had him model the pelt before hiding it away. Rex and Coo Coo Bird think he's awesome.

Did I mention I have two more of these animals to make, and that June found/opened/destroyed the pattern last night? I wonder who’ll be getting coal this year.

Because I've had so much time on my hands I decided to "throw together" a hooter-hider for a girlfriend that just delivered. I only had to rip it out three times before getting it right, and I only hit one child in the process.

Here's Rexy's stick animal. It was supposed to be a mythological T-Rex (because we all know dinosaurs are a hoax), but he looks more like a sea serpent (which are not mythological. I wanted to make a Big Foot stick animal but I thought that might be a little creepy.).

Harrison is nuts about “Harry Potta” (whose name he says with a British accent). I decided every boy needs a good invisibility cloak, so here you go. June is modeling it on his behalf (since he won’t get it until the 25th).

I told her to be invisible. She's freaky smart.

This is her, "Oh no! It's He Who Must Not Be Named!" pose. What an actress.

I’ve also thrown together some pajama pants for the boys, as well as my latest and greatest in the great big world of stick horses. This is Pepper, made with love for my darling niece Jane.

I'll finish her up this afternoon, but if I don't post her now you'll never see her.

And that is my craft room update. If you’ll excuse me, I’m off to grab a diet coke and start cutting.

Sorry, I can’t let this one go just yet.

Before I touch on The Basketball Heathens, I’ll take a moment to say that the party rocked. We ended up with twice as many potatoes and jello salads as we needed (although is there really ever enough Jello salad?), thanks to my impressive low functioning math skills. On the up side, I don’t have to cook for Jason’s work party tomorrow.

When we got to the gym this morning, what do you think we saw? Just over half of the room set up. That’s right. The basketball players from yesterday put out what looked like enough tables, spread them around real good, threw up some chairs and went home. We had two hours to decorate and no man power.

So I called my husband.

You know when you really want to say “I Told You So,” but it’s Christmas and you’re trying to be Christlike, but then fail and say it anyway? Yeah, that one felt good.

Jason came in full uniform and spent the better part of an hour redeeming himself. Good boy.

But I have to say something about Church basketball. Last week we had our dress rehearsal scheduled. We got to the building, and what do you think we found? Deacon basketball. Apparently, they have the gym EVERY THURSDAY NIGHT from here to forever. This gave me cause to panic, because the party was scheduled for a Thursday night.

So I asked the guys who were practicing for the show what they thought. Our conversation went something like this:

Me. “So, they say they have the gym every Thursday, but I’m on the schedule for next Thursday. What should I do?”

The entire lot of them stood around, wide-eyed, shaking their heads and saying things like, “Ooh, that’s bad,” and “You’d better talk to them, they do have first dibs.” First dibs? Pa-nick.

Then I headed over the room the women were practicing in and posed the exact same question.

“Kick those boys out!” and “Ward activities trump!” and “Down with Church basketball!” was the response.

See, men can’t help it. For my sister Kerry’s wedding reception (I was six), my family decorated the gym, went to the temple, came home, and a group of boys had come in and MOVED THE DECORATIONS to play church basketball. And now those same boys are grown men.

And what do you think we met on our way out of the building tonight? That’s right, the same group of single guys who show up twice a week to play. So lame. Go on a date already.

No really, hate.

I am the activities boss for the ward right now, and tonight is our Big Fat Christmas Celebration. Now, a regular Christmas party is work, but a Big Fat one? Let’s just say I was up until 2:00 am and really shouldn’t have slept at all last night.

And like a good Activities person, I have delegated duties to every neighbor and passed an invitation to every stranger. One of the most important parts of this party is seating. Cause really, what’s a pulled pork dinner and a Christmas Jazz Show without chairs and tables? Chairs and tables are to my party what our tree is to the ornaments.

So I asked the most responsible person I could think of to handle the set-up: my husband. As far as commitment is concerned, Jason is like a jihad on a suicide mission (minus the virgins on the other side, if I have anything to do with it). His job was to get the young men to set up the entire gym last night after mutual so that this morning I could go decorate without breaking my back (or a sweat).

“So,” I ask, “How does the gym look?”

“Um…”

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN, UM????” Yes, I kind of freaked out at that first um because I’m wound up like a yo-yo right now.

“Now calm down. See, we went to set up, but there were these guys that wanted to play basketball…”

“Basketball? YOU CHOSE CHURCH BASKETBALL OVER ME??”

“No, it wasn’t like that! They promised they’d set them all up when they were done playing, so we just…”

“You just. You just what? Ignored the fact that my entire party depends on chairs and tables??”

“Anne, calm down. If they’re not set up when you get there, I’ll leave work and do it myself.”

Since he’s not willing to leave work ever for anything that doesn’t involve the death of one of our children, I decided that was a sufficient trade.

But why is it that church basketball is as much a religion as our religion? This is the third time in the last month they have attempted to ruin my life and my party. We booked the gym for a dress rehearsal last week. When we showed up, what do you think we found? A bunch of boys who insisted we let them finish because they have “Thursday night first dibs.”

I’m leaving for the church in ten minutes. There had better be tables and chairs….

So we went to the Stake Christmas Sing-In on Sunday night.

One thing we Mormons do not do well is congregation sing, and this event was no exception. We’re quiet singers, don’t-let-the-person-in-front-of-us-know-we’re-here singers. Frankly, there are times when I think we are way too reverent.

When I think of a Christmas Sing-in, I think families and children and lots of songs that aren’t in the hymnal. There are so many wonderful religious Christmas songs that we don’t have room for, what a great opportunity to sing them!

But did that happen? No. Not only did we sit down with the 25 other stake members  who attended (seriously, 25? Where is the love, people?), but we OPENED THE HYMNAL TO PAGE 201. That’s right, we sat down and did four straight verse of each song, standard protocol 4 part harmony. Zzzzz….

My family got two songs into it before June (who is what we like to call “less reverent”) got away from me and sprinted up to the front of the chapel. I quickly followed and snagged her, but by the looks on the faces of the people in attendance, you’d think she had just interrupted the prophet during General Conference.

So we did the only thing that seemed proper. We grabbed our kids and bolted (much to the relief of the entire group).

There are times when noisy toddlers should be tolerated, and I guess this was not one of them. Most of the congregation in attendance was blue-haired anyway, so I can’t expect them to remember the days of diapers and squeaky shoes (that’s right, she had squeaky shoes on, because I’m reverent like that).

We just got back from Michael McClean’s holiday production, The Forgotten Carols. Now there’s a Mormon who knows how to sing. Man I love that man. (I also love all Mormons, good singer’s or not, because in most cases they’re seriously good people. Just clarifying.)

And this brings me to my link. It’s that time of the month, my article in The Standard Examiner came out yesterday. Check out what I would call the WRONG way to handle a noisy child in a public place.

Today I am mad.

So last night little Rexy got sick. Rex has asthma. We all know that asthma plus a repiratory infection plus H1N1 is a recipe for a dead kid, so it shouldn’t surprise you that we were kind of insane with worry.

He woke up at 10:30 wheezing and hacking. We weren’t sure if we should take him in, give him a treatment, what, so I called the after hours call center.

“No problem,” the girl says. “The doctor will call you right back.” Since we use this service a few times a year, I wasn’t worried. So we sat next to the phone with our dying boy and waited. And waited. And waited.

After 20 minutes, I figured they might have the wrong number so I called again.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, the page didn’t go through, but we paged him again and let him know that you’ve been waiting, so I’m sure he’ll call you right back.

11:00.

11:14.

11:25.

11:36.

One hour. We sat next to the phone, literally, for an entire hour, waiting for the delinquent doc to call us back. He’s not our regular doctor, and this isn’t the first time I’ve had trouble with him. Last year he was the doc on call during this same time of year, and we had this exact same kind of problem.

Rex was croupy and I didn’t know if I needed to take him in or give him a treatment or sit on my hands. It was the middle of the night and the good old on call doc. was obviously irritated to have his beauty sleep disturbed.

When I posed that question to him, he snapped, “How am I supposed to know?” and followed it up with something that was the politically correct version of, ARE YOU AN IDIOT?

At 11:45 we turned the phone off. Jason and I had been taking turns trying to calm him down so his cough would get better. Jason gave him a blessing, we bundled him up, and I took him for a walk in the snow. All that cool, damp air really helped and as of this morning, he’s still breathing.

I checked my phone this morning. He finally called at 11:51. Jerk.

Okay, must run. Taking Rexy into the Good Doc. (That’s Dr. Forebush at Tanner Clinic, in case anyone’s looking for an absolutely fantastic pediatrician. We love him like family.)